By R.S. Emeline
I was close to where the car was hidden, and I could see the flames rising in the dark behind me. Lights strobed from the emergency vehicles, as they tried to control the blaze. I took a deep breath and walked into the clearing where the car was parked and looked around. No car.
“What the Hell!” I stomped my foot on the ground and let out a feral growl.
All the markers were where they were supposed to be. White paint on the ground. Black X on the tree. Empty dirt road. I checked the time. If I didn’t get back to my hotel in the next hour I wouldn’t make my flight.
I looked down at the ring I wore on my right hand. Two simple silver bands surrounded a Celtic design wrapped around my finger entwined with a shamrock and a blood red stone in the center. Each person in my family had a similar ring. Each designed the same, only the stone was different. We never took them off, because to take them off could mean our deaths.
The rings were our safety nets. The one way we could protect ourselves when an assignment didn’t go right, when we were in danger, or in my case when I was stranded because some little punk ass stole my car. I twisted the Celtic band, enabled the tracking device and notified my brother of the S.O.S. With a sigh, I climbed into the tree and waited to be rescued. Again.
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